The Grim
by Jadea
Summary: The scene from POA all the Ron-haters like to pretend doesn't exist


Author: Jadea   
  


Disclaimer: You don't have to own something to love it. And I most definitely do not own Ronald Weasley, or Harry Potter, etc. ect   
  


Rating: Pg-13. Violence and profanity. We *are* talking Ron's perspective, here.   
  


Summary: The scene and lines from POA all the Ron-haters like to *pretend* don't exist. 

A Black Grim. A Broken Leg. A Haunted House. A Convicted Murderer. //I think I'm going to die.//   
  


//Denotes Ron's thoughts//   
  
  
  


******************************************************   
  
  
  


//I don't want to die.//   
  


When he was seven, Fred had tricked him, given him an acid pop that had burned a hole right through his tongue. He remembered his eyes watering, the stabbing pain as if someone was pounding nails through the soft tissue in his mouth. It was, by far, the most agonizing thing that had ever happened to him--the scale by which he measured all other physical pain. Nothing--not even Norbert's bite or the headache he woken with first year after getting clubbed over the head by a giant chess piece--could compete with it.   
  


Until now.   
  


This wasn't pain you could ignore or dull. This was pain that consumed, demolishing everything in its wake. His leg wasn't merely screaming, it was howling, an ache at once both sharp and dull.   
  


//I don't want to die.//   
  


His head swam, spots danced in front of his eyes. Thoughts flittered away from him, elusive snitches he just could not grasp.   
  


Slobbering breath, close to his right ear. The right sleeve of his robe was ruined; the old material had ripped when the Grim had yanked him underneath the Whomping Willow, silmentaneously tearing cloth and bone.   
  


One of Bill's old robes, it had been. Too short anyway.   
  


//Damn. I'm going to die in my brothers old, too short, hand-me-down robes.//   
  


A sharp tug on his ruined sleeve and his entire body jerked backward, dragging through the dirt at the bottom of the   
  


(Tunnel?)   
  


Hell the giant dog had forced him into. The pounding at the base of his skull increased in tempo.   
  


His head. . .his arm. . .his leg.   
  


It hurt. . .so much.   
  


He drifted in and out of consciousness, never going completely under; the pain in his leg would not allow him to. Nor would the Grim, it seemed to jar him every time he came close to blacking out, causing a fresh wave of agony to roll through his leg.   
  


//How long has it been dragging me?//   
  


And why. . .why was it bothering, anyway? There was no way Harry and Hermione could get past the Whomping Willow, a fact for which he was, at the same time, intensely bitter and deeply grateful. Why hadn't the thing killed him outright, after it had dragged him through the roots of the mad tree? Isn't that what Grims did?   
  


//Ooh, Looky. Ickle Ronnekins broke Mum's favorite bowl. The Grim's going to come for him, now.//   
  


Memories swamped over him; fairy tales, nursery rhymes, stories told in hushed voices in the dead of night by the light of a few flickering candles.   
  


//And then...the Grim will come to take your soul...//   
  


No.   
  


He may be going to die...scratch that; he most *definitely* was going to die. But he wasn't going to go down without fighting.   
  


He was going to take this horrible creature with him.   
  


//I still have my wand.//   
  


He continued to lay limp, motionless. Ignoring the sharp jabs as his leg bumped over the uneven ground, ignoring the siren of pain that his body seemingly could not absorb. He felt as if he was radiating agony.   
  


Slowly, slowly, he inched his left hand--the one not currently held in the jaws of the lurking Grim--toward the inside pocket of his robe.   
  


He would only have once chance. If the Grim knew he could fight back, it would finish him off sooner rather then later.   
  


//Slowly. . .slowly//   
  


The worn, faded fabric of his robes shifted underneath his fingertips as they inched towards his pocket. Utterly focused on his own movements, oblivious to the fact that the teeth seizing his right arm in an iron grip had disappeared, that the panting breath at his ear was gone.   
  


//Please, please...//   
  


And then...pain.   
  


Another figure--not the Grim--had lunged at him, wrenching his hands away from his body. Away from his wand. Sending agony roaring through his thin frame, his shattered leg.   
  


He struggled with the figure; twisting and kicking with his good leg, desperately trying to free himself and get to his wand. Dimly, he was aware of a pale face, of dead, dark eyes looming above him. Of his own harsh breath echoing down the tunnel. The creature above him pinned him to the ground, knee on his chest, and tore his robes open.   
  


//He's got my wand//   
  


He could feel Scabbers, squirming in his pocket. Poor thing was terrified.   
  


Hell. *He* was terrified.   
  


"Nice try, Boy."   
  


If a corpse could speak...that was what they would sound like. Rough, clotted words, rusty from little use. Before now, the most terrifying voice he had ever heard had been Snape's soft, malicious whisper. This was worse. So very much worse.   
  


He blinked once, twice. Quite possibly the last thing he'd ever do. Agonizingly slowly, the face above him swam into focus.   
  


He screamed.   
  


That face...those eyes...   
  


//Black. It's Black. Oh God, Oh God, Oh God. . .//   
  


//I'm going to die.//   
  


The creature above him recoiled, tensing before quickly silencing him, slamming a hand over his mouth, muffling his yells.   
  


"Be quiet, Boy. I'm not going to hurt you."   
  


In spite of everything, Ron snorted against the filthy hand covering his mouth. 'I'm not going to hurt you.' Ooh, right. He believed that one; lying here in the dirt with this Azkhaban escapees knee digging into his chest, his wrists held in a bruising grip above his head, his bloody leg *broken* by this psycho. Oh, yeah. He'd fall for that--right after Snape snogged Percy.   
  


He twisted violently, flinging the hand from his mouth, struggling to free his wrists from Black's grip. He didn't have a Gryffindor's chance in Potions, not really--he was struggling against a full grown man and even if he got free he'd never get away, not on a broken leg--but maybe, just maybe, if Harry and Hermione were following, somehow, he could warn them what they faced. Not a dog. Not even a Grim.   
  


A murderer.   
  


//Ooh, looky looky, Ickle Ronnekins...Big Bad Sirius Black's escaped from Azkhaban. The most feared murderer in Wizarding history...//   
  


// Pettigrew's finger in a box...that was the biggest part of him they could find. . .//   
  


Another twist, and he flung his elbow up, catching the criminal in the throat...his only hope was to retrieve his wand...   
  


Pain.   
  


Jolts of lightning hit him and he screamed again, unable to bite back his cry as Black landed with his full weight on his broken leg. If he had been capable of breathing, he thought he would have been violently sick. Then at least he might be able to puke all over Black's robes. Not that you'd really notice, the state they were in. He shuddered, gut roiling as Black picked himself up off him, grimy, scratched hand still clutching Ron's unicorn hair wand.   
  


//Bastard. That was mine. My first new wand...//   
  


//My only new wand, looks like//   
  


//AvadaKedavraAvadaKedavraAvadaKedavraAvadaKedavraAvadaKedavraAvadaKedavra AvadaKedavraAvadaKedavra...//   
  


Black knew the words. Of course he did. He had been You-Know-Who's special lieutenant, hadn't he? Betrayed Harry's parents to their deaths...   
  


//Bastard. Coward. Traitor.//   
  


He hadn't wanted to die this way. Unable to speak, unable even to breathe. Dying alone, with only a mad convict for company, alone in pain and darkness, fear swamping him.   
  


He forced a tortured breath into his lungs, blinking back the tears stinging the corners of his eyes. Focusing on the unicorn hair wand pointing directly at his chest. He'd never imagined, when he'd bought the damn thing in Ollivanders shop, that it would be the thing that finished him off.   
  


//What an absolutely *corking* way to die. . .I'm going to be killed by my own bloody wand. Now there's something no one else has ever done before.//   
  


Furiously, he glared at Black. Dead eyes, matted, filthy hair clinging to his tight skull. Not exactly the last thing he'd wanted to see before dying, but he was not going to go down a coward. Black was the traitor--the *real* coward. And if he was about to get snuffed, he was going to tell this skinny, filthy, betraying *coward* that attacked thirteen year old boys and defenseless portraits exactly what he thought of him.   
  


"Traitor."   
  


Ron didn't think he'd ever heard so much contempt in his own voice before. He spat the word out disdainfully, staring into the older man's crazed eyes, disgust clearly written in his own blue ones.   
  


Black's hand clenched tightly on his wand, words began to emerge from his throat.   
  


//I'm going to die, ohGodohGodMumDadHarryHermio--//   
  


"Petrificus Totalius."   
  


He supposed the look on his own face must have been priceless, even as he fell back hard against the dirt floor, body rigid and unmoving from the spell...those were about the last words--except for maybe "Do you have the time?"-- Ron had expected would come out of Black's mouth.   
  


Why wasn't he dead?   
  


Why hadn't Black killed him?   
  


//Has he lost his bloody mind?//   
  


The convict loomed over him, eyes hard and unflinching, revealing no more expression then the gargoyles that clung to the corners of Hogwart's roof.   
  


And as he watched. . .Black changed.   
  


The only person Ron had ever seen morph into an animagus before tonight had been Professor McGonnagal. Just a few weeks ago, the Head of Gryffindor house had demonstrated the ability to him and his classmates, most of whom had been suitably appreciative. Ron, however, had been rather hungry at the time and had been far more interested when the class was dismissed and they had made their way to the Great Hall for lunchtime.   
  


Now, of course, there were other things distracting him from truly appreciating the amazing spectacle that was animagus transformation--namely, a broken leg and the annoying feeling that he was going to die a rather painful death very, very soon.   
  


It was still damn impressive, though.   
  


Where Black had stood not five seconds before now there was an enormous black haired dog, eyes gleaming in the cave, gazing at him as if he was a particularly interesting chew toy.   
  


If he could have moved, he would have flinched when the dog once again seized the already torn shoulder of his robes in his teeth and resumed pulling him through the dirt floor of the tunnel.   
  


//Wow. That was *really* impressive, Weasley. You fought him...and you accomplished absolutely nothing. No, wait, you did do something. You lost your damn wand...//   
  


Fiercely, he struggled against his own body. In his mind, he was kicking, thrashing and twisting and trying desperately to wrench his arm free of Black's teeth. But his damn body just would. Not. Move.   
  


Hermione had been Petrified last year, still and motionless, but she had told him that she had not been thinking during that time. . .it was just like sleeping.   
  


Well, if he was sleeping, this was the worst damn nightmare of his entire *life*...   
  


//Why didn't he kill me?//   
  


Realization swept over him and his mental struggle intensified bitterly, but still his body refused to respond.   
  


Damn. Damn. Damn.   
  


He *had* to get free.   
  


This wasn't just about him anymore.   
  


//Sometimes, in order to lure a larger piece into a trap, you have to use a less valuable player, like a pawn, or a rook...//   
  


//The bastard wants Harry.//   
  


Nothing in his life had ever been this frustrating, this painful. Not even Second Year, when that *idiot* Lockhart had tried to 'Obliviate' him and Harry and caused the whole damn roof to come down on them, separating him from his best friend, leaving Ron trapped and forcing Harry to go face danger alone.   
  


//He's using me. As bait. To get to my best friend...//   
  


A bitter taste welled up in his throat and he squeezed his eyes shut tightly, blinking back what ever it was that was stinging their corners.   
  


//I will not be the reason my best friend gets hurt, you hear me?//   
  


Even with his eyes closed, body rigid as a board, he noticed the way the ground sloped upward underneath him. The dirt and stone scraped against his back and his long legs stuck out in front of him; he looked a bloody teeter-totter.   
  


There was one benefit to being frozen. He no longer felt his broken leg at all. It might as well have been a chunk of wood.   
  


His eyes flew open as the giant dog paused and opened his jaw, releasing Ron's robes before morphing back into that bastard Black, who drew Ron's wand and muttered a spell--lumos--that caused light to spring from its tip, making both convict and boy blink at the unfamiliar brightness.   
  


Those dead eyes assessed him again, lying motionless on the floor. For a moment--just a brief moment--Ron could have sworn he saw regret flash across that face.   
  


Yeah, right. Sirius Black had killed thirteen innocent people with one curse--and then he had laughed. There was no way he was going to feel sorry just because he'd happened to break the leg of a thirteen year old wizard.   
  


He couldn't clench his fists. He couldn't mutter curses and spells. He couldn't even sneer at the bloody coward in front of him. But he could glare, and he did that to the best of his ability.   
  


He hoped he conveyed every bit of his contempt for Black in his eyes.   
  


Evidently he did, because the convict turned away, grabbing his shoulders, pulling him deeper into...   
  


//Where the hell are we?//   
  


The tunnel was over. Not that Ron had particularly liked the cramped, dirty tunnel, but it was at least familiar. This...this looked like a house.   
  


A thrill of fear beyond anything he had ever felt in his entire life--even first year, facing the giant chess set, or last year, facing bloody *huge* acromantulas--coursed through him.   
  


//What if he has allies? What if there are some other Death Eater's here? What if You-Know--//   
  


No. Please...no.   
  


It seemed to be a house. A messy, dusty, forlorn, deserted house, but a house, just the same. Of course, he could be wrong, because his view pretty much consisted of the ceiling, lying unmoving on his back as he was.   
  


The world revolved before his eyes for the first time in forever as he was wrenched off his back. He knew that hands had to be under his arms, tugging him upwards, pulling him backwards as they scaled a steep flight of worn stairs, his rigid legs leaving trails in the inches of dust beneath him, but he could not feel any arms.   
  


//Where is he taking me?//   
  


He felt himself being turned, dragged backwards down a dim hallway. He remembered once when Dad and Bill had come back from a Ministry function sloshed and Mum had had Dad drag Bill up the stairs and put him to sleep without using magic, as punishment for letting Bill get drunk. It had been bloody hilarious when he had watched Dad struggle to carry Bill, who was two inches taller and about twenty pounds heavier. It wasn't nearly as funny now.   
  


Black had paused at the last room in the hall, undoubtedly trying to figure out how to turn the doorknob while juggling a wand and a motionless but nonetheless heavy thirteen year old boy. Finally, the convict slipped an arm around his waist, holding him upright, and used the hand clutching Ron's wand to open the scratched wooden door, pulling Ron into the shadowy room after him.   
  


//Why didn't he just let me fall? It's not as if he cares. . .//   
  


Faint streams of starlight illuminated the room, slipping through the cracks of the boarded up windows...   
  


Oh, Hell.   
  


Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.   
  


//I must have the worst damn luck in the whole bloody universe.//   
  


Boarded. Up. Windows.   
  


He knew exactly where he was. And except for maybe an Acromantula colony or Professor Snape's shower, it was the *last* place in the wizarding world he'd ever want to be.   
  


//And that, ickle Ronnekins, is the Shrieking Shack, the most haunted house in all of Britain. They say that any one who enters it never comes out again, and it especially likes to devour annoying little red-headed brothers named Ron. . .//   
  


God, sometimes he really, really hated Fred and George.   
  


Black tugged him backwards across the room, leading him to the large four poster canopy bed before dumping him on it. Dust flew up from the coverlet and he felt an overpowering need to sneeze. . .but evidently he couldn't even do that.   
  


The crazy-eyed convict was standing over him, pointing his own damn wand at him again.   
  


//So this was it. Lure Harry deeper into the Shack. . .as far into the trap as possible.//   
  


For the first time since their struggle in the tunnel, Black spoke.   
  


"I'm going to un-hex, you, Boy. Dont move after you're free; you'll only hurt yourself if you do."   
  


It took a minute for him to completely understand the words.   
  


//Un-hex me? Is he *mad*? Does he think that I'm utterly helpless...that I won't fight back?//   
  


//He's still using me against Harry. He doesn't want him to come up here, see me lying all stiff, and think that he's coming to rescue a corpse.//   
  


Unable to respond, Ron blinked.   
  


Evidently Black took that for acceptance and muttered the spell.   
  


Once, when he was nine, Fred and George had grabbed and tossed him, fully clothed, in the pond at the back of the Burrow. They had charmed the water to heat it--not enough to burn, just enough to sting. He had never quite forgotten the shock of abruptly finding himself swimming underwater in a pond that was suddenly the temperature Mum liked her tea to be...   
  


But that was *nothing* compared to this.   
  


It was like feeling his leg break all over again.   
  


For a few blissfull moments, when he had been frozen, there had been no pain. No movement, no real breath, but the little invisible house elves who had been so merrily sawing away at his leg had taken a coffee break.   
  


The cussed things were back, now. And they were making up for lost time.   
  


//Ronald, thy middle name is pain.//   
  


He clenched his hands into fists, dimly aware of his fingernails digging into the skin of his palms, of the fact that he was arching his back, trying to twist away from the pain that was roaring through his body, his every cell, his every nerve.   
  


Black spots swam before his eyes and he shut them tightly, not wanting to see the look on Black's face.   
  


//Your fault. This--this is your fault//   
  


A mettalic tang washed through his mouth, and he realized he had bitten his lip hard enough to draw blood.   
  


//Breathe, Ron. Breathe. You have to breathe...//   
  


Air whistled in between his clenched teeth and he blinked furiously. He was *not* going to cry in front of Black. No way. Not if it killed him.   
  


//Which he probably will.//   
  


Slowly, agonizingly slowly, his breath came back to him. He lay on his back on the bed, staring at the blue lace canopy, gasping.   
  


"He won't come, you bastard."   
  


The words were out of his mouth before he was even aware of them. Smooth, Weasley. Hack off the murderous prison escapee. Smart plan. But he couldn't help it. The fear was still in him, but the rage had taken over, now. He couldn't even begin to remember the last time he had been this mad.   
  


Black just looked at him, staring at him with hooded eyes. A fresh wave of anger rolled over Ron, not quite burying the agony in his leg.   
  


"Harry's not stupid, you know. He won't come. We don't even know each other very well..."   
  


Incredibly, a small, bitter smile flickered across the Bastard's face.   
  


"You, Boy, are the worst liar I've ever met."   
  


Ron felt his cheeks flush...with embarrasment? This--this *convict* was making fun of him?   
  


"Better a terrible liar then a *traitor*"   
  


Damn. Damn. Damn.   
  


For a moment, a look of pure fury flashed through those dark eyes, and Ron just knew Black was going to draw his wand and use him for 'Unforgiveable' practice.   
  


"Never call me that."   
  


That voice spent shudders up and down his spine and he clenched his hands in the bedspread, feeling the fabric rub against his fingers. But not even the icy fingers on his back could stop his mouth. Nothing but his Mum could do that.   
  


"Why not? It's the truth, isn't it? You. Are. A. Traitor. You pretended to be James Potter's best friend and then You. Sold. Him. Out. To Voldemort. Then Pettigrew went after you, and you blasted him into a million pieces. It's your fault that Harry's parents are dead, it's your fault he had had to live with those awful muggle relatives of his, it's *your* fau --"   
  


Black lunged at him, hand out, seeking Ron's mouth, trying to stifle the red headed boy's words. Panic coursed through Ron and he shoved desperately, fighting as hard as he could. Black's hand was on his neck, moving towards his mouth, and the other hand was on his chest, digging through the pocket of his robes. Small, muffled squeaks issued from the pocket, and he could feel Scabbers scrambling around desperately, much as he was...   
  


With as much force as he could, Ron drew his good leg back and caught Black square in the chest, forcing him away from the bed. However, the strength of the kick made him overbalance and he tumbled off the bed, clutching at the covers with his hands in a vain attempt not to fall.   
  


Somewhere in his journey between the bed and the floor he saw the door open wider and a streak of orange dash through the room.   
  


He caught himself, barely, on the palms of his hands, cushioning the blow to his leg as best he could, fighting back the vomit in his throat as his leg hit the ground. He gasped, fingers clutching at the splintered floor, and felt drops of sweat slide their way down his forehead, stinging his eyes.   
  


Then he heard it. The sound he had been praying to hear--and not to hear--ever since the Grim had dragged him through the roots of the Whomping Willow.   
  


Voices. Voices he would have recognized anywhere.   
  


//Harry, Hermione...get away. Get away, now...//   
  


He forced a deep breath into his lungs, watching his fingers clutch at the splintered wood beneath him, and opened his mouth to yell a warning.   
  


The words never came out, though. Black clutched one hand roughly in his red hair, jerking his head back and smothering his cry with one filthy hand. The cries in his head only increased in volume.   
  


//No. No. You won't use me to get Harry. You won't. I won't let you...//   
  


Sweat and dirt washed over his senses, smelling the hand clasped over his mouth and nose, and he again fought the urge to vomit.   
  


//I don't want to die.//   
  


As vicously as he could, he locked the thought away, shoving it in a box, double bolting it, and jumping up and down on it, just for good measure. It wouldn't do him any good. There was no way in hell he was going to get away...he had a broken leg. Unless Harry or, more likely, Hermoine, knew a spell to take on a fully grown, powerful dark wizard, he was dead. Running was their best option. Their *only* option.   
  


You can't run very fast on a broken leg.   
  


Magically, it seemed, the hand muffling him was gone, and Black dissapeared into the shadows of the room. A soft sound above him made him look up, and he glared at Crookshanks as the damn cat lept up on the canopy bed he had so recently tumbled out of.   
  


More sounds, from the hallway.   
  


Damn.   
  


They were already on the stairs.   
  


//You morons! Go back! Go back!//   
  


Movement flickered in the corner of his eye and he jerked, looking for Black. All thoughts of spying the convict were erased from his mind, however, as the action jarred his broken leg, making the psychotic little house elves redouble their efforts.   
  


Biting back a groan of pain, his shaking hands clutched at his leg. Memories of his mother kissing his bumps and bruises to make them all better flashed through his mind.   
  


//Somehow, I doubt Black's going to do that, ickle Ronnekins.//   
  


Suddenly the door crashed open, slamming into the wall behind it with a dull crunch. Harry and Hermione charged through it without a second glance; his green eyes wide and worried, her brown curls flying everywhere.   
  


"Ron!! Oh, Ron!"   
  


"Ron! Are you Okay?"   
  


He'd never heard either of his best friend's say his name in that tone...fear and relief warring in their voices, both of them saying his name as if they were the most important three letters in the world.   
  


Hermione flung herself at him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, clutching him tightly, wild brown curls flying everywhere, tickling his neck and cheek. For a brief moment, before she buried her head in the space between his shoulder and neck, he swore he saw tears glittering in her honey-brown eyes and felt something really...weird...in his stomach.   
  


He hated to see Hermione cry.   
  


He looked up at his other best friend, blinking against the brown strands of hair flung across his face and eyes. The funny feeling that had begun in his stomach at the sight of Hermione's tears only grew at the expression on Harry's face.   
  


He had seen that expression before...   
  


He remembered the way his Mum's eyes had looked last year, when he and Harry had brought Ginny back to Dumbeldore's office when they had all that his baby sister was dead...a rush of disbelief, of total and utter joy on his mother's sweet face, such selfless lov--   
  


Abruptly, Hermione pulled away from him, a deep blush of colour rising in her cheeks. The movement rocked him back and he drew in a sharp breath, clutching his leg with both hands.   
  


"Ron...where's the dog?"   
  


Some invisible fist was squeezing his throat, and he coughed, forcing the words out painfully. Any movement--breathing, speaking--set his leg off. If he actually put any weight on the damn thing, he figured he'd pass out.   
  


Damn. He really, really hated those blasted psychotic house elves.   
  


"Not a dog. Harry...Harry, it's a trap. He's the dog. *He's an animagus*"   
  


The door slammed shut behind them.   
  


Damn.   
  


//Black's got us. All of us.//   
  


//We're trapped//   
  


Hermione's hands flew up to clutch at her mouth, eyes wide with shock as she spun around to stare at the source of the sudden noise. Harry jerked once as a tremor worked it's way through his body, devoid of any other reaction as he stared, and stared, and stared at the man who had betrayed his parents to their deaths.   
  


Heat swept over Ron in a dizzying current; he was vaguley aware of the fact that his whole body was trembling, although not with fear. Or at least, not entirely.   
  


Anguish. Guilt.   
  


//My fault. It's my fault they're down here. They followed me.//   
  


For a moment, there was deep silence; the only sound that of their mingled breath and that damned cat, Crookshanks, purring.   
  


//God, I'd give a galleon to punt you across the room right now, you--//   
  


Black's words were soft, choked. The convict couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from Harry, seemingly awestruck by sight of his best friend's son. And the words he spoke...   
  


Ron fought a violent urge to throw up.   
  


"I thought you'd come for your friend. . ."   
  


"Brave of you, not to go for a teacher. . ."   
  


"Your father would have done the same for me. . ."   
  


Ron jerked his head up, staring at his best friend's stoney face with growing fear.   
  


In the three years he had known Harry, he had never seen *anything* like this.   
  


A look of cold fury had begun to creep into those eyes. Something bitter, hard. Adult. It was the way Harry looked when he spoke of the Dursleys, only a thousand times worse. Something...   
  


Something deadly.   
  


His shaking hands reached out and seized the wooden post of the bed, fingers white knuckled, clutching the old wood desperately. His leg howled in protest; he gritted his teeth and clung to the post with both hands, choking the column of oak in his grip. A soft moan of pain escaped through his clenched teeth and Hermione's eyes darted over toward him, letting out a soft whimper of protest when she saw what he was doing.   
  


//Gotta get up. Get up, Weasley. Get up. Get up. Gotta Get. . .//   
  


Arms straining, clutching the bedpost in a death grip, he shifted his weight, ignoring the stabs of pain in his leg, and used the leverage of his hands to pull himself upright, balancing on his one good leg.   
  


Colors danced in front of his eyes; his head swam; his knee almost buckled.   
  


A wave of blackness so deep and so dark that it seemed endless washed over him; he clung to the bedpost to save himself from drowning in it. He felt himself shivering uncontrollably, skin breaking out in goosebumps up and down his back. His entire body felt frozen except for his leg; *that* damned thing felt like someone had thrust a flaming hot poker through it. And then decided to move the poker a little.   
  


Harry was screaming at Black; his best friend was beyond rage, now. All his control was gone; all the compassion, kindness, humor...everything Ron knew and loved in his friend had dissapeared, buried under the wave of hate he felt for Black.   
  


// NO! //   
  


Ron's hand shot out, seizing the fabric of Harry's robes, clutching them even tighter than the bedpost that was was holding him up. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Hermione do the same thing on the other side of Harry, gripping the shoulder of the dirty cloth, both friends holding on to the robes--and Harry--with all their strength.   
  


//You won't get him. You hear me, Black? You won't get him.//   
  


Slowly, he uncurled his fingers from around the bed post.   
  


//I won't let you.//   
  


His best friend jerked again, trying desperately to free himself from his and Hermione's hands, but the fabric of Harry's robes was clenched so tightly in Ron's fist he felt the pattern of the cloth imprinted on the skin of his palm. A soft, terrified plea--Hermione's--sounded deafeningly loud in the still shack.   
  


"No, Harry!"   
  


Gasping, Ron clung desperately to Harry, both to restrain him and because right now, Harry was the only thing holding him upright. Hermione's words reverberated through him, and Ron felt *something* in him, something that ignored the agony in his leg, the terror in his heart, the horrible, crippling fear that he was never going to see his Mum again . . .   
  


//You want them, Black? Come on, then. You'll have to go through me.//   
  


He had never been more aware of the pounding of his own heart, the beat of his own pulse, the breath that was racing through his lungs. Coppery strands of hair tumbled down over his forehead, brushing the tips of his eyelashes. Unblinking, he looked into the murderer's eyes.   
  


His arms clutched Harry even tighter.   
  


"If you want to kill Harry, you'll have to kill us, too."   
  


For a brief moment, Harry stopped struggling. Ron could have sworn he heard the other boy gasp, a quick intake of breath near his right ear. Hermione let out a small, choked sob.   
  


Something flickered in Black's shadowed eyes.   
  


"Lie down. You will damage that leg even more."   
  


A rush of anger distracted him from the scalding hot agony that was his leg. Black thought that he would just 'lie down,' did he? Was the bastard *deaf*?   
  


A wave of dizzines hit him and he swayed dangerously on his good leg. Clinging to Harry like a drowning man, he glared, furiously, at Black. He spat the words out with as much anger as he could manage, but the pain was cresting in him now, and he honestly believed he was going to pass out any minute. . .   
  


"Did you hear me? You'll have to kill three of us!"   
  


The words were fierce, the tone in which he said them gasping, weak. God, he was in so much pain...   
  


Despite his own words, he knew that, of the three of them, he must look the *least* threatening to Black. Swaying precariously on his one good leg, clinging with all his remaining strength to Harry; white faced and on the verge of passing out. He was dimly aware of the world rocking underneath his feet and the knowledge that he was about to crash to the floor when he felt Hermoine's arm slip around him, clutching the robes around his waist to stop him from falling. Her movement, however, meant she released part of her hold on Harry and, with a supreme effort, he wrenched himself from their hands, throwing himself at Black. . .   
  
  
  


Fin 

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(Rant Time) 

Motivation for this fic. . .I went to the 'Ron Haters' website recently to see their "arguments," and my blood is still boiling. They have this entire essay talking about how lazy and jealous and *selfish* Ron is, and they use "evidence" from the books to back themselves up. . .they even twist things like the Chess Scene in PS/SS and say Ron's doing it for selfish reasons! One scene they just *forget* to mention is the one I just wrote about, which just happens to be my favorite scene in all the books: when I first read Ron's words, that he was willing to die for Harry, I almost cried. 

(Rant finished)   
  


Anyway, this fic just *flew by*--there is nothing like righteous indignation to make writing easy, evidently. If you liked it, if you hated it, or if you just don't care, feel free to tell me. 

Edited April 21, 2003, in order to spell "Hermione" properly and get rid of the extra space at the end. And because I was disgusted with reading a post that basically said that Ron is an abusive bastard, and needed a little Ron love. You are the best, Darlin'.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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